Waarheid
by Novocain
Summary: [She would rather guzzle whiskey like water and have drunken sex against the Black tapestry with her skirt rucked up and his trousers unzipped and her knickers torn enough for easy access but not enough to fall to her ankles until after.] Escapism and war


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This is the truth.

Hermione does not love Malfoy. She is alone and hollow, and maybe she's going through her stash of Firewhiskey more quickly than she should, but she does not love the Slytherin.

The two of them rattle around the emptiness of Grimmauld Place, scuffing toes on moldy carpet and not looking at the severed elf heads still hanging in the hallway.

This is the truth.

They are not allowed to leave the house. Hermione is the Order's Secret Keeper. Malfoy will be killed the instant he steps foot in the outside world for being a Death Eater and not being a very good one, for being a traitorous one.

Order members come and go, but in the end Malfoy and Hermione are the only ones there and it's too quiet.

This is the truth.

She can't taste food anymore. The only thing that registers with her taste buds is whiskey. It burns.

She never grimaces.

This is the truth.

Hermione is bored. She is afraid, as well, but she has been afraid for so long that she barely even recognizes the emotion anymore.

She tries not to think about it anyway. (About how helpless she is - she isn't DOING ANYTHING, and she should be because her friends are out there and the bastards killed her parents and her heart and Harry's conscience and --) She doesn't want to end up like Sirius.

So she is bored, and that is it. She finished reading the Black library six months ago, and now all that is left for her to do is not leave the house and throw back endless shots of Firewhiskey.

She starts watching Malfoy.

They are three years into the war, and he doesn't look it. Oh, Hermione is sure that Malfoy has a few scars under those tailored clothes of his, but he is just as perfectly groomed and coldly lovely as ever.

In fact, she likes to think about finding his scars at night when she is in her bedroom (with its dingy grey silk wallpaper and creaky four-poster bed).

This is the truth.

Hermione does not love Malfoy. She thinks he is attractive, and she really only has one use for him. When she closes her eyes and slides her delicate fingers down-down-down at night, she just as easily thinks of Lockhart's pretty face, of Viktor's ugly/beautiful body (she associates the gothic monasteries and cathedrals of Rome and France with Viktor - so ugly that he's gorgeous, and that kind of beauty tastes different).

Desire is what she makes of it, and desire is not love.

This is the truth.

Desperate people determined not to focus on the circumstances of their lives do strange things.

One night Malfoy retrieves his own shot glass from the kitchen. He slams it on the table and sits across from her and her whiskey languidly.

The look in his eyes is anything but languid. It's resigned and bitter, and Hermione knows that he does not love her, either. She is just a Mudblood. But she has grown into a beautiful woman - short, curly hair and pronounced curves, all delicate hands and bony wrists.

So Malfoy wants an excuse, and she will give it to him because she doesn't really care if either of them remembers this in the morning.

She pours him a shot.

Desperate people determined not to focus on the circumstances of their lives do strange things.

This is the truth.

They both remember the night before. They awake in separate beds, and Hermione remembers how he bruised her bony wrists and that he has several scars, one on his hip that she traced with her tongue.

She doesn't know what he thinks about the experience, but they do it again and again and again, until Hermione can draw a map of his scars and connect the dots with a knife.

They're both rather kinky.

This is the truth.

Hermione doesn't love Malfoy. She is twenty years old, and she never dreamed of love and weddings the way other little girls did - romance and wooing by candlelight. She never thought she would turn out like this, but she would rather guzzle whiskey like water and have drunken sex against the Black tapestry with their clothes still on, with her skirt rucked up and his trousers unzipped and her knickers torn enough for easy access but not enough to fall in separate pieces to her ankles until after. She knows that it is just sex, just fucking - and she likes it that way. She doesn't want Malfoy to love her, and she doesn't want to love him. Loving him would be an exercise in heartbreak.

She's just a Mudblood, after all.

This is the truth.

He is using her for sex. She is using him, too, though, so it never bothers her. They are using each other.

She never stays, after. She never stays and never wants to, and Malfoy never asks her to. She goes to her own room, satisfied and tired, and lies on her back as she sleeps.

She does not curl against the form of a phantom body.

This is the truth.

On nights when she doesn't feel like riding Malfoy's broomstick, she lies in bed and pulls up images of Viktor's ugly/beautiful body, his nimble Seeker's hands and dark eyes. She thinks of movie stars and that boy who lived next door to her parents before the entire street was massacred. She thinks of Padma Patil's long, deft fingers and the lead singer of the Weird Sisters.

Desire is what she makes it, and sex is not love.

This is the truth.

Hermione does not love Malfoy. She is alone and hollow, and maybe she's going through her stash of Firewhiskey more quickly than she should, but she does not love the Slytherin.

The two of them rattle around the emptiness of Grimmauld Place, scuffing toes on moldy carpet and not looking at the severed elf heads still hanging in the hallway.

They lick scars and cunts and cocks at night and sometimes in the middle of the day, and they fuck - they don't make love or sleep together, they _fuck_.

Hermione does not love Malfoy, and his hiss of "Mudblood" when she sucks him off does not mean anything to her - she knows she is the best he has ever had.

Hermione does not love Malfoy.

This is the truth.

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A/N: I kinda like this one, but that's not what's important. Do you lot? I had a lot of fun making Hermione an escapist in this one. 

The first person to correctly guess the meaning and language of the title gets to request an oneshot w/ the character, situation, and/or specific line. Leave contact info!


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